Arrival is unceremonious, an exhausted thud of debris from hell, left to hurt in “heaven.” We make do. Prostrate under innumerable stars of night and diurnal passing of wanton plains, near the limit that a hand, or mind, can endure, we inspire dust as metaphor for our new soil.
We settle on this ground as if roundly spurned by every bird and leaf. We distract the hawk here today and will so oftentimes forever.
My shaking persists as I kiss my ground; I must rest. Our journey has no end in memory.
Journeys test all, but, leader, I lay exposed to my God, my fever and my collective devils, trailing team and wagon a thousand miles.
